


The Beginning Is The End Is The Beginning

by indiefic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:58:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/pseuds/indiefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rumple cast Belle out of the Dark Castle, she took more with her than the clothes on her back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Difficult Man To Love

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Luthien for the beta!
> 
> **WARNINGS** : Spoilers for any OUAT that has aired through "Manhattan".  
>  **TIMELINE** : Set in the Enchanted Forest, starts during Skin Deep.

_“Shut the hell up!”_

_“Why won’t you believe me?”_

_“Because no one – no one – could ever, ever love me!”_

***

**Chapter1: A Difficult Man To Love**

***

Belle supposes she should feel cold, but mostly she just feels empty. The sun has set and the small candle does little to keep the darkness at bay. In her life, she has known hardship despite her affluence. She lived through her mother’s death, watching her father fade away a day at a time. Swallowing her pride, she allowed herself to be betrothed to Gaston, a man she didn’t love, in the hopes that it would help her village. She endured the first barrages of the Ogre War rattling their village walls.

She knows sacrifice. She knows that her own happiness is often not a consideration.

But until today, she truly had no idea that she could feel so thoroughly defeated. She assumes that somewhere inside she must have believed that True Love would always triumph. She looks around the cold, dirty dungeon cell. Her current circumstances are proof enough of her misconceptions.

True Love. She found it. Despite the completely absurdity of the situation, she found it. With Rumplestiltskin, her lonely monster. What they found wasn’t simple affection, wasn’t simple love. It was True Love, the stuff of legend, a love that could break a curse as old as time. And even that wasn’t enough. True Love wasn’t enough to heal the fractures, the rifts, in Rumplestiltskin’s soul.

He’s more than just a lonely monster. She knows that. She’s known that for months. She knew there was more to him than the giggling imp and the demon. She just never realized that his soul, his human soul, is so profoundly damaged that he truly cannot allow himself to believe someone can love him. She knows it’s not that he doesn’t love her. He does love her, with a desperation that no doubt terrifies him. But he can’t allow himself to even consider the possibility that she could truly love him in return.

She wipes away a tear, wondering what exactly happened to him to warp him so thoroughly. What drove him to become the Dark One? What happened to his son, his wife? Everything - even his humanity - has been stripped from him leaving behind nothing but pain and his ferocious power.

She hears the latch on the door and she looks up as he walks into the cell. His rage has dissipated, but he looks brittle, as if he’s warring with himself and losing on all fronts. He’s holding a tray laden with tea and bread. She watches as he awkwardly sets it on the floor. “For you,” he says without looking at her.

He turns toward the door and she jumps to her feet behind him.

“Don’t go,” she says, her voice breathless to her own ears.

He stops, cocking his head to the side, not turning to face her. “Believe me,” he says darkly, “when I tell you that you do not want my company tonight.”

Undaunted, she reaches out, touching the fabric on his forearm. “I do want your company,” she says quietly.

With an inhuman growl, he spins, grabbing her and pinning her to the cold, stone wall. Her head snaps back with a jolt, her teeth clacking together painfully. 

Immediately, his hand goes to her face as he stills, his palm cupping her cheek as his lips press together tightly. She can hear the harshness of his breathing. She knows he needs to assure himself he didn’t hurt her. And she knows that he doesn’t want her to know that. He’s not near as proficient a liar as he believes himself to be.

She reaches up, covering his hand with her own, turning her face into his palm. “I’m fine,” she says. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He growls again, this time not a demonic sound but simply a frustrated man. He presses in against her, his forehead resting against the stone wall, their bodies sealed together from chest to thigh. She turns her face, pressing her cheek to his, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. 

“Don’t do this,” she whispers, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t do this to us. Don’t throw away what we have.”

He pulls back, sneering at her, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “ _We_ , dearie,” he mocks. “There is no _we_. You are a possession, a trinket traded to me for a task so simple it was done with a snap of my fingers. I _own_ you.”

She can see it in his features, she can see the anguish it causes him to force himself to say these words. Dammit, why is he doing this? Why can’t he just believe? 

“Please,” she says, reaching up to touch his face. He may talk a good game, but he longs for affection more than any person she has ever known. His eyes close and he leans into her touch. 

“Let me love you,” she whispers.

His eyes snap open and he bares his teeth at her. “ _Love me_?” he seethes. He thrusts his hips against her and she can feel him, hard against her belly, his body vibrating with tension. “Is that what you want?” he demands. “Because that’s the only love you’ll get from this monster. On your back with my cock in your cunt, begging me to stop until you can’t speak.”

She looks at him, meeting his gaze, her bottom lip quivering. She presses her lips together to stop their treacherous movement. She shakes her head, looking at him sadly. “Do you think I’m afraid of that?” she asks incredulously. “Afraid of you?” She reaches for the laces on her bodice and starts to pull them loose, willing her fingers not to shake. 

She has to look at her bodice in order to pull the laces free and she knows he is looking as well. She can feel the tension in his body, hear the harsh sound of his breathing as he watches her undress. She notes that he pulls back just far enough to give her room to finally pull the bodice free. He wants this, regardless of what he says. She shrugs out of the bodice, letting it fall to the ground at her feet. 

She knows the threadbare chemise does nothing to protect her modesty and she can easily feel the texture of the cold stone at her back. She watches his hand as he cups her breast through the chemise, his dark claws contrasting sharply with the white material. He squeezes her, his fingers finding her pebbled nipples and pinching lightly. 

She bites down on her bottom lip and then cups her hand around his. He stills and she knows he is waiting for her to pull him away, to reject him. But she doesn’t. She urges him to cup her tighter.

He groans, burying his head in the crook of her shoulder. “ _Belle_ ,” he whispers shakily.

She turns her head toward his, wrapping her free arm around his neck, holding him close. “I am not afraid to lie with the man I love,” she says.

He pulls back and looks at her, his face etched with misery so profound it breaks her heart. She leans into him, pressing her lips to his cheekbone and then his jaw. She won’t kiss him on the lips, though she knows it would make no difference. It wasn’t her kiss that broke the curse, it was his. He has to free himself. She can’t love him enough for both of them, no matter how much she wishes she could.

Her fingers find the front of his waistcoat and tug at the buttons. He stands there, not helping, but not hindering her actions. She feels his hands restlessly fisting in the material of her skirts. Having freed all the buttons, she pushes the waistcoat from his shoulders and starts on his shirt. When the garment finally hangs open, she presses her palms to his bare chest. He sighs at the contact, leaning into her touch. She pulls him closer, finally able to press her lips to his neck now that those damn collars are out of the way.

He groans, his fingers finding the fastening of her skirt and petticoats. When they pool at her feet, she steps out of them and then helps him pull her chemise over her head. She stands before him, bare, while he is still mostly clothed. It makes her feel vulnerable, but she supposes, no more vulnerable than she already felt. This is always how it is, her bare and him hiding behind his armor of silks and leathers and indifference.

He touches her reverently, his fingertips skimming along her collarbone, down her arm, along the curve of her breast. She shifts restlessly, pressing closer to him and they both groan at the contact of bare flesh against bare flesh.

His lips find her neck and he pulls her with him as he moves to the tiny little bed against the far wall. He lays her down gently and then sits on the edge of the bed, simply looking at her. She looks up at him, fighting the urge to curl in on herself and cover herself with her hands. It is the newness of it all that unsettles her, not him, but he would not take it as such.

She reaches up, pulling at his shoulders, urging him down to her. He goes willingly, inserting one leather clad thigh between hers as he props himself up on one elbow over her. He is half lying at her side, half covering her. She likes this much better, the closeness of him, the heat. Ducking his head, he kisses her neck. Impatiently, she pushes at his shirt until it too is on the floor.

She traces her fingers down his back along his spine, trying to memorize the feel of him. Because despite the glorious newness of these sensations, she understands this act for what it is - a farewell. He will allow her - and himself - this one night of comfort. And tomorrow he will don his armor of indifference and cut her out of his life. 

Forever. 

She wants to rage at him, to demand he stop being such a bloody idiot. But it would do no good and it would serve only to ruin this moment as well. So she pushes those thoughts aside and does the only thing she can - she loves him.

His kisses and touches are more insistent and she too feels the urgency. Her fingers find the waist of his leather pants and she searches for the fastenings. Her fingers brush against his hard sex and his breath catches in his throat. She stops, afraid she did something wrong. Immediately, his hand covers hers, urging her to cup him through the leather. His hips arch into her touch and her heart pounds with excitement. “ _Yes_ ,” he whispers.

At his urging, she rubs him through the leather, but soon that’s not enough for either of them. She pushes him more onto his side so she can unbutton his pants. As soon as the buttons are free, they both push the leather down his hips. Tentatively, she touches his rigid length and he goes perfectly still. She can feel the tension in his body, hear the ragged sound of his breathing. Her fingertips play lightly over his skin, tracing the length of his sex. She has no idea how this is possibly going to work, but presumably it will. Men and women have been lying together since the dawn of time. They are no different.

His breathing becomes even more labored and finally his hand guides hers, shows her how to wrap her fingers around his girth, how to stroke far harder than she ever would have dared. Releasing her hand, his fingers find her hip and then skim low across her belly to her inner thigh. The sensation is strange and exciting and she shifts, opening her legs for him.

He touches her lightly, his fingers playing against the wiry hair hiding her secrets. One finger traces the seam of her lips and he groans. “ _Fuck_ , Belle. So wet.”

She blushes furiously, hiding her face against his neck. She feels rather than hears him chuckle. “No, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and husky. “It’s beautiful. Lovely.” He strokes her gently, his thumb finding her tight bundle of nerves as one of his fingers dips inside her.

Her breath catches in her throat and he kisses along her jaw, his fingers continuing to stroke her. She’s restless, wanting him to continue but needing … _more_. He lowers his head, catching her nipple between his teeth and sucking hard.

She yelps, her fingers threading through his hair, pressing him closer. His hand between her legs rubs her harder, more insistently and before she knows it, she’s coming apart, shivering as she moans his name.

Pleasure is still rippling through her body as he moves, urging her thighs wider, covering her body with his own. He surges against her, burying himself to the hilt in one long thrust. She gasps, instinctively pressing her thighs together, which serves only to drive him deeper.

He grunts, obviously trying to hold himself still. His lips are against her ear and she can hear him panting with effort. She feels him lick his lips before he whispers, “I’m sorry, love.”

Unable to speak, she presses one palm to his cheek, stroking him while the other finds the small of his back, urging him closer. This pain, she knows, was inevitable. The first time. She’s heard many stories of the agony of the first time. Truth be told, it isn’t agonizing, merely surprising and uncomfortable. But her heart is heavy with the thought that their first time will likely be their only time. She does not want him to regret this.

She turns her head, her lips searching out his and he allows the contact, deepening it. This won’t change anything, she knows. The kiss worked earlier for the simple fact that in that one fragile moment he allowed himself to be loved. Despite the fact that he is quite literally, physically loving her right now, she knows that vulnerable part of him is locked tightly away. Whatever lies he tells himself to shield his heart are firmly in place.

Their tongues tangle together as he slowly moves his hips, withdrawing before pushing back with equal care. His hips movie in languid, shallow movements. This goes on for long minutes, his teeth nipping at her lips, his tongue exploring hers as his sex moves slowly inside her. She is surprised to feel her tension build again and realizes that there is no more discomfort, only the pleasure of having him deep in her body.

She groans, her hands finding his hips, urging him closer, harder. He breaks off the kiss, panting as he obliges, driving into her faster, harder. 

“Yes,” she breathes in his ear and he is lost. He thrusts against her once, twice and then his body cords, his mouth falling open in a wordless cry. He slumps against her, breathing hard and she holds him close, mindless of his weight.

He lies there for a long time and she is content to merely hold him, her fingertips playing over the skin of his back. She knows he’s awake and watching her, but she can’t bring herself to meet his eyes. If she does, she’ll ask him to stay and he’ll pull away, retreating.

The candle eventually burns itself out and the room is completely shrouded in darkness. He reverses their positions, cradling her against his chest in the dark. She tries to stay awake, to hold onto him, but after some point it’s just not possible. She drifts into an uneasy sleep.

She wakes alone.

***

It is late morning when he opens the door to her cell. She’s been waiting for his arrival, practicing all the things she wants to say as she gathered her scattered clothes. As she cleaned herself up and dressed, her emotions went from hopeful to angry to desperate to numb.

He is reasonably composed, but there is still a brittle edge to his movements that mirrors her own fragile state. She looks up at him from where she sits on the bed and asks, “So what are you going to do with me?”

He won’t look at her. He stares at the far wall. “Go.”

She stares at him. She knew. She knew - but she hoped. Oh, gods, she hoped in spite of everything that he wouldn’t do this. This is outrageous, even for him. “ _Go_?”

“I don’t want you anymore, dearie,” he says, his voice cold and cruel.

It’s the ‘dearie’ that does it for her. That’s the term he uses when he toys with people. He hasn’t called her that in months - not counting last night when he was trying to scare her, to drive a wedge between them. For him to call her that now, after everything they shared last night … She pushes herself off the bed and marches out of the cell. 

She stops just outside the door. She’s sore … _there_. Where he pushed himself into her, where he gave them both pleasure. But that pain is nothing compared to the pain in her heart. The same pain he must be feeling. And all for no reason. Their mutual heartbreak is manufactured by him so he doesn’t have to face his own insecurities, so he doesn’t have to risk anything.

Turning, she walks back into the cell, standing directly in front of him. He stares down his nose at her, his expression shuttered. “You were freeing yourself,” she snaps. “You could’ve had happiness if you just believed that someone could want you. But you couldn't take the chance.”

“That’s a lie,” he says, his voice and his posture both brittle.

She doesn’t think she’s ever been so angry, so disappointed with anyone in her entire life. “You’re a coward, Rumplestiltskin. And no matter how thick you make your skin, that doesn’t change.”

“I’m not a coward, dearie,” he says, his voice cool and mocking. “It’s quite simple, really. My power means more to me than you.”

He is such a terrible liar. He doesn’t believe that any more than she does. 

“No,” she says firmly. “No it doesn’t. You just don’t think I can love you.” She takes a breath. “Now you’ve made your choice. And you’re going to regret it. Forever. And all you’ll have is an empty heart and a,” she pauses, willing her voice to be firm, “chipped cup.”

***  
END CHAPTER


	2. Captive Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Luthien for the beta :D

This tavern seems as good a place to stop as any, so Belle goes inside and finds a seat at a table. Taking off her cloak, she studies the other patrons. The little village is busy, working class, but it doesn’t seem dangerous. These lands appear prosperous and as far as she can tell, untouched by the Ogre Wars that blighted her lands.

 _Her lands._ Her lips pull into a frown at the thought.

Belle often considers returning to her village and to her father. It’s her wounded pride, she supposes, as much as her heartbreak that keeps her from heading home. She doesn’t want to return to her village with her tail between her legs, having been cast aside by the pigheaded beast who took her. She can endure many things, but pity isn’t one of them. Or her father’s self-righteousness. Or even worse, Gaston’s.

Belle is in no mood to hear railings against Rumplestiltskin’s monstrosity. She isn’t naive, despite how some people may choose to interpret her optimism. She knows Rumplestiltskin’s reputation was hard earned. When someone on the wrong end of one of his deals calls him a monster, they usually have a reason. Not that she agrees with the assessment. But Belle also knows that Rumplestiltskin relishes being called a monster almost as much as people enjoy labeling him as one. He courts their ire as much as their fear. 

Theatre, artifice, misdirection - those are the true currencies in which Rumplestiltskin trades, not gold. Belle has often wondered if he was an actor in a previous life. Or perhaps a holy man with a talent for charming collections from his flock. Neither would surprise her.

Everything Rumplestiltskin does, everything he says, are all part of an elaborate disguise that almost no one is willing to look beyond. She knows what’s buried beneath the cruel, mocking, frightening imp. She’s seen the kind, vulnerable, broken man who is so desperate for attention that he’ll take any he can get, even the bad. Rumplestiltskin is such the consummate performer, she thinks most of the time he gives people what they want without even realizing it. The worse they expect him to be, the worse he acts. It’s a self-perpetuating cycle. She sighs loudly.

“Miss?”

Belle looks up, pulled from her thoughts by the young tavern girl. “Yes?”

“Can I bring you something, Miss?” she asks brightly.

Belle pats the coins in the little purse at her waist. Her resources are limited and she must be judicious about how she spends the gold, but she certainly could use a drink now.

***

Rumplestiltskin walks to the windows of his tower laboratory and stares out at the quickly fading daylight. Fall has stripped all but the pine trees of their foliage and the formerly impenetrable forest is no longer completely shrouded in darkness. He can see for miles. And wherever he looks, he sees unspoiled snow. No human tracks. No riders on horseback. No lionhearted girl wading through snowbanks as she charges to his rescue. 

He is well and truly alone, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.

It would be simple enough to use magic to find Belle, but what purpose would that serve? Surely she has returned to her father’s home by now. The few coins she took (and the several extra he used magic to tuck into her pockets) aren’t nearly enough to finance adventures around the realm. No, she will have been forced to return to her father and her precious little backwater village. Rumplestiltskin takes some measure of peace in the fact that at least that oaf, Gaston, won’t be there waiting to welcome her home. He’s still sitting in the vase where Belle unwittingly put him weeks ago.

No. Rumplestiltskin has vowed to himself that he will not look for Belle. She left, albeit at his command. But she left. Everyone has free will, no matter how much people may try and convince themselves otherwise. Belle left because she chose to leave. He is Rumplestiltskin, the Dark One, and he will not chase after some simple village girl, no matter how profound her loveliness or how exquisitely tight her quim.

But … if Belle returns to the Dark Castle, he will take her in. He may throw her back in her dungeon cell, but he will give her shelter. He might even keep her company in her cell, enjoy her favors yet again. He’s slept in there several times since she left. Well, not exactly _slept_. More like jerked himself off while searching for the lingering smell of her on the worn blanket. 

She was wet for him, his little Belle, when he first touched her in that dank little cell. People, as a rule, lie. Women, in particular, lie well. But even if she had manipulation in mind, she couldn’t have willed herself to be wet in anticipation of him. That much, at least, was real. Whatever deceit may live in her heart, her body, at least, craved this monster’s touch. And he would so like to oblige her craving yet again, to see how far he could push the bounds of her desire. He has employed many sordid tasks to break people. But never desire. In this, Belle should be his first. He can use the force of her own desires to learn the truth, to learn what game she was playing.

He groans, grinding his teeth together and pressing his eyes shut tightly. He’s hard, just thinking about her. He’s been like this for weeks, his fertile mind often straying back to memories of how Belle felt around him, her breathy sighs, her short fingernails digging into his back. The tears in her eyes as he sent her away.

He turns away from the window. He doesn’t _miss_ her. That weak, maudlin word is completely inadequate to express the excruciating sensation he feels when his thoughts turn to Belle. There is a gnawing, clawing sense of fragmentation. It’s the deal, he assumes. She promised to go with him forever and now that deal has been irreparably broken. Yes, his unease is nothing more than the acidic bite of a deal unfulfilled. No one breaks a deal with him. No one.

His actions were prudent when he sent her away. Belle is dangerous to him. He knows that truth with absolute certainty. Her first kiss was a clumsy trap set for a foolish old demon - but it almost worked. The fact that kissing her again - fucking her, for gods’ sakes - didn’t yield similar results is proof enough of the fact that it wasn’t real. As if it would ever be possible for anyone to love him at all, much less enough to share True Love’s kiss with him.

Belle’s knowledge of the method to break a curse undoubtedly came from Regina. He does not know if Regina truly intended to hobble him or if she merely wanted to test him, but regardless, Belle is not to be trusted again. She may not have been complicit in Regina’s plans, but no one who can be so easily manipulated can be allowed to be so close to him.

But even knowing all this, Rumplestiltskin has discovered in the last several weeks that he would rather not trust Belle from significantly closer proximity than he currently enjoys. He’s decided that he should keep an eye on her. A close eye. The closer the better. A hand or two wouldn’t hurt either. And while he’s at it, he might as well fuck her regularly. Gods know that girl can get up to trouble in no time when left to her own devices. She’s far too bold for her own good.

Reaching out with his magic again, Rumplestiltskin checks his defensive wards. The wards are there, but they are mostly dormant. The protective measures will react to only the most direct attack. They would not prevent - say - a simple village girl from making her way to the Dark Castle.

***

Belle sips her ale, feeling melancholy and completely unlike herself. Despite trying to distract her mind with a multitude of other topics, the utter waste of what Rumplestiltskin threw away all but consumes her thoughts. The waste and, much to her own chagrin, how much she misses him. It doesn’t seem to matter that she is still angry with him and disappointed in him. Her yearning for Rumplestiltskin’s company easily surpasses any other emotion she feels toward him.

Reflexively, her hand goes to her belly and she frowns. Surely it’s not possible. Rumplestiltskin isn’t even fully human. And yet … Her moon time hasn’t come. And she’s nothing if not regular. Verna used to joke that you could set a clock by the regularity of her cycles. Belle hasn’t bled since before that night with Rumplestiltskin in his dungeon. 

She cringes inwardly. His _dungeon_. Gods, how did she end up in this predicament? First her nurses and then her governess routinely lectured her on what they perceived to be her multitude of character flaws. She was too bold, too stubborn, too curious, (too indulged by her father - though they usually muttered that one under their breaths). But, really, even for Belle this is beyond the pale. A dungeon for gods’ sakes. It’s not like that’s a story she could ever tell their figment-of-her-broken-heart child. What a lovely tale that would make, how Mother was ruined by Father (who, by the way, isn’t human) in a cold, stone dungeon cell and then tossed out in the morning without so much as a job reference.

Belle can’t help but laugh at herself. Not caring if the other patrons think her mad, or well in her cups, she giggles and giggles at the absurdity of her situation. Eventually the giggles subside and she wipes away her tears. She takes a deep, steadying breath. She supposes that the story of how Mother and Father shared True Love’s kiss and how it was enough to break the darkest curse would probably be a better tale for their non-existent child.

She’s not with child. She can’t be. It’s far more likely that the stress of travel and a broken heart are wreaking havoc on her body.

Belle screws her eyes tightly shut. But what if she is with child? She should tell him, shouldn’t she? He deserves that much at least, coward or not, monster or not. He had a son. Would he welcome another child? Or would it simply be another threat to send the supposedly ferocious monster into retreat? 

It’s still far too early for Belle to be certain one way or another about any potential offspring. There’s not even any point in visiting a midwife. A wise woman would probably just tell her that she was being a silly girl and that if she didn’t intend to get with child, she should keep her legs shut. Belle always thought that sage advice, but as it turns out, it’s considerably harder to put into action than she could have dreamed.

Belle was humbled, but not necessarily surprised, by the depth of her love for Rumplestiltskin. Somehow, that’s how she always expected love to be, complex and consuming. The physical hunger, however … She had never been one of those girls to dread the idea of lying with a man. She wasn’t overly eager, but her curiosity was definitely piqued at the idea. But there were ideas and then there was the very real sensation of her lover’s touch. 

She thinks about Rumplestiltskin all the time, her body tingling with the memory of their night together. Belle looks around the tavern, idly wondering what the patrons would think if they knew how she lusts after the Dark One. She acknowledges that it’s quite scandalous. She, somehow, even sort of enjoys that fact. Oh yes, if the tavern patrons knew, they’d definitely think her mad. But Belle doesn’t feel the least bit ashamed by any of it. She loves Rumplestiltskin and it doesn’t matter to her that he is an imp. He is her Love.

Her Love who doesn’t want her. Her Love who tossed her out on her ear despite the fact that their deal was forever.

Belle sighs. The thought of telling Rumplestiltskin about her suspicions, only to find out she is wrong is too humiliating to contemplate. He accused her of trying to trap him with her kiss. What would he think if she told him she was carrying his child? They only had one night together, a fleeting moment. Surely that’s not enough. She knows young wives who tried for years before they finally fell pregnant.

She looks up sadly. She has been half-heartedly eavesdropping on the dwarves at the next table for quite a while. They are gregarious and lively. All except one. And at the moment, she needs a distraction from her own troubles. 

“It’s not in his head,” she says sadly, interrupting their conversation. “It’s in his heart. You’re in love.”

The elder dwarf, Bossy, looks at her incredulously. “Well that’s impossible. Dwarves can’t fall in love.”

“Trust me,” Belle says kindly. “I know love and you’re in it.”

Bossy waves her off, rising to join the other dwarves across the bar, but Dreamy turns around to face her. “What’s it like?” he asks.

Belle smiles. “It’s the most wonderful and amazing thing in the world. Love is hope. It fuels our dreams. And if you’re in it, you need to enjoy it.” She swallows as sadness burdens her heart. “Because love doesn’t always last forever.”

“But if love’s so great, why do I feel so bad right now?” Dreamy asks.

Belle leans in closer, her tone vehement. “You need to be with the person you love.”

“Yeah, but how do I know she feels the same way? All she talked about was going to see some fireflies - not loving me,” he says, clearly confused.

Belle cocks her head to the side, watching him. “What did she tell you about these fireflies?”

Dreamy frowns. “Uh, that she was going to see them on the hilltop tonight. That she heard they were the most beautiful sight in all the land.”

Belle laughs and Dreamy looks affronted. “What?”

Belle looks at him with mock severity. “She wasn’t telling you about the fireflies. She was inviting you to go be with her.”

“You think so?” he asks, face full of hope.

Belle smiles sadly and nods. “I’ve had my heart broken enough to know when somebody’s reaching out.” She pauses and then looks at him intently. “Now go. Find your love, find your hope, find your dreams.”

Belle watches Dreamy leave, unable to prevent the frown that tugs at her lips. She’s a coward. She can’t even take her own advice.

The tavern girl stops at her table. “Another ale, Miss?”

Belle shakes her head, rising to her feet. “No,” she says smiling. “No, thank you. I need to get some air.”

***

He sighs, concentrating, picturing in his mind’s eye what he wants. Opening his eyes, he smiles tightly. Once again, his cabinet of treasures is whole and pristine. There is no evidence of how his anger shattered the glass or sent the precious relics flying. It simply wouldn’t do to have that known. He is the Dark One, Rumplestiltskin. He can’t have anyone seeing evidence that he lost his temper in such a way. He is always controlled, always _in control_.

He sighs, frowning. He suspects that Belle will know, regardless of how expertly he restored his treasures. She is an irritatingly observant little thing. Far too watchful and _nosy_. Yes, she will know. So be it. He doesn’t owe her any explanations.

And he certainly isn’t going to go looking for her, least of all to bring her back here. He’s Rumplestiltskin. He doesn’t need to stoop to such tactics. 

His little housekeeper is nothing if not curious. Surely that alone will drive her back into his ar- back to his _home_.

Yes, a curious little cat, his Belle. Bound to wander home eventually.

And he will be waiting.

***

Belle is in no bigger hurry to return to her father’s home today than she was last night. However, she’s going to have to make a decision about her future soon. 

The gold she took when she left the Dark Castle won’t last forever. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she told Rumplestiltskin she wanted to see the world. She’s spent the last five weeks doing as much seeing as she can manage. 

But so far, it hasn’t exactly been a grand adventure. Mostly, it’s been a lot of walking and a lot of sleeping in uncomfortable places and a lot of getting rained on. Her plans to prove herself, to show the world what she can do, haven’t yielded anything more adventurous than ordering ale in a strange tavern and offering unsolicited advice. 

And the occasional terrified wondering as to whether her night with Rumplestiltskin resulted in something more substantial than her broken heart and wounded pride.

Lifting her mug and finishing the last of her ale, Belle listens the man on the other side of the room. 

“There’s a fearsome beast ravaging a faraway kingdom,” he says. “Its eyes burn with fire. They call it the yaoguai. No man has been able to kill it, but we will. There’s room on our wagon. Now, who’s going to join us?”

Narrowing her eyes, Belle considers his words and then catches herself. She smiles, feeling silly. 

“Looking for an adventure?”

Belle looks up and smiles at the dwarf she met last night. “Dreamy, right?”

He nods and smiles. “Yes.” He takes a seat at her table. “I came to thank you. That advice you gave me last night? It worked. Nova and I are running away together.”

Belle laughs joyfully, grasping Dreamy’s hand. “That-that’s wonderful.” Sniffling loudly, she blinks back a tear. Someone should get their Happily Ever After.

Turning her head, she once again looks at the men on the other side of the tavern, biting down on her bottom lip as she watches them.

“Why don’t you sign up.” Dreamy encourages.

Belle laughs with self-deprecation and gives a small shake of her head. “I, um… I’ve always dreamt of heroics, but, I think it’s safer I stick to my books. They’re the only adventures I know that have happy endings.”

Grumpy shrugs, lifting his mug for another drink. “Well, maybe this one’ll have one, too.”

“Well, yeah, I doubt it,” she says sadly. “Last time I faced a beast, it didn’t end well.” What an understatement.

Dreamy’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

Belle opens her mouth, but finds she can’t explain. Luckily, she is spared the need to say anything when the man on the other side of the tavern announces, “Men, follow me. Yaoguai awaits.”

Belle sits there watching the men file out of the tavern. Most of them look like farmers or laborers, most of them well into their cups. She wonders how many of them will continue with the quest come morning. Few, she imagines.

“Get on that wagon,” Dreamy cajoles. “Go. Take a chance.”

Belle sits there for a few long moments, biting down on her bottom lip before flipping her book closed and smiling at Dreamy. “Thank you.”

Quickly packing her book in her satchel, Belle heads for the door, following the band of hunters.

“Wait!” Dreamy calls. “Belle, wait.” He rises from his chair and meets Belle in the middle of the tavern. He holds a small pouch out toward her. “It’s fairy dust. Might come in handy.”

Belle looks at the little pouch, her brow furrowed. “Oh, no. Thank you,” she says, trying to hand the pouch back to Dreamy. “I’ve seen what magic does to people.”

“You’ve seen what _dark_ magic does,” Dreamy says firmly. “Fairies use this for good. Now go be a hero.”

Belle laughs, smiling. “Okay.” She turns and hurries out the door.

***

Wearily, Rumplestiltskin collapses into the chair before the fire, goblet of spirits in his hand. He’s wet, muddy and thoroughly exhausted. It was a lucrative deal, but it will take years before it comes to fruition. Not that he minds. Almost all of his deals are made for long term results, not short term. But unlike most of his deals, he found no enjoyment in the bartering tonight.

He takes a long swallow of the potent drink, relishing the way it burns down his throat. Now if it could just burn away his thoughts, maybe he’d be getting somewhere. Typically, when dealing, there is the thrill of anticipation and the satisfaction of knowing that he will come out on the winning end of the bargain. But tonight … the only thing he felt was the desire to go home. And even now, in his home, seated before the fire, spirits in hand, he feels no more at ease.

Restless, waspish, unsettled, angry - those are the things he feels tonight. Those are the emotions that have plagued him for weeks. Ever since Belle left. 

She left. And she hasn’t returned. Why hasn’t she returned? It’s been weeks!

With a growl, he hurls the goblet into the fireplace, watching as the crystal shatters and the spirits ignite in a burst of flame. It gives him no satisfaction. Grunting, he pushes himself out of the chair and heads for his tower. There is work to be done.

***

Belle stares at the fallen beast. “Let’s give this a try, shall we?” she says lightly, sprinkling Dreamy’s fairy dust over the creature. A cloud of purple smoke roils around the beast and then dissipates, leaving behind a human man.

“The curse,” he says, looking at her in wonder. “You broke it.”

Belle shakes her head, frowning, trying to push away all the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. This man needs help. She can’t get lost in thoughts of Rumplestiltskin. “Someone did this to you?”

“Maleficent,” he says, as if the name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, “an evil sorceress from my kingdom determined to do everything in her power to keep me apart from Aurora, my True Love. She exiled me to this land, and turned me into a monster. I tried to warn the villagers, but…“ He sighs. “No one understood what I really was. Except you.”

Belle blinks quickly, trying to ignore the way his words tug at her heart. “Well, you’re not the first beast I’ve faced,” she says wryly.

“I am forever in your debt,” he vows earnestly. “Please, tell me how I might repay you.”

“My friend’s hurt,” Belle says quickly. “She needs a doctor. As do you. Help me bring her back to the village.”

“It would be my honor.”

***

It’s late, very late. One hand wrapped around his flask, Rumplestiltskin uses the other to push open the door to Belle’s room. Not the dungeon cell, her _real_ room. He has avoided this room. It still smells like her, is still filled with her odd assortment of knickknacks and books purloined from all over his castle. He has to stop in the doorway, bracing himself against the frame for a moment.

This is madness. This goes against every instinct he possesses for self-preservation. No matter how delicious he found Belle, he should not be doing this. He has rarely felt more a man than at this moment, led around by his cock. That’s all this is. All this _can be_. Underneath the monster, he’s a man and he hungers for the sweet, welcoming warmth of her body. He hungers for it enough that he’s willing to endure her traitorous heart and mind to partake again.

The candles burst to life at a thought and he makes his way to the wardrobe. Her gold dress hangs inside, unworn since the day he brought her to the Dark Castle. He reaches out and rubs the material between his fingers. It is well made, but not exactly luxurious. The dress’s most becoming quality was the way Belle wore it. It was her bearing, not the dress, that made it so elegant.

For a moment, he is lost in memories. All of Sir Maurice’s war council trembled - all but Belle. She alone had the courage to deal with him one on one. She alone was brave enough to take his arm, to go with the beast. And then to love him. To lie with him.

His brave Belle.

***

Belle knows it is madness to return to the Dark Castle, but she also knows that she has no choice. Especially not after what happened tonight with Phillip. If her adventures have taught her anything, it is that she belongs with her True Love and he with her, his stubbornness be damned.

What if Rumplestiltskin misses her as much as she misses him? As much as she longs for him to make the first move, to come and find her, she already knows that she’s the brave one in this relationship. She will have to rescue him. And if her suspicions about their night together are true, he should know sooner rather than later.

Trekking through the woods, Belle finally comes to the road. She stops, staring off in the direction of the Dark Castle and taking a deep breath. She steels her resolve. “I’m coming back, Rumple,” she vows.

“Isn’t that sweet? Still fighting for true love, even to the bitter end.”

Belle spins around, staring at the woman she met on the road months ago. The Queen. Regina. Her beautiful features are twisted with cruel mockery.

“How did you find me?” Belle demands.

“You really should be nicer to your traveling companions,” the Queen says with an evil smile. “Right, Claude? Take her to the tower.”

Belle tries to run, but the two guards grab her and drag her toward a cage. She fights, twisting, trying to get away. The guards throw her in the cage, locking the door. There is a sensation as the door snaps shut, a sizzling of magic that even Belle can detect. She has to work her jaw to get her ears to pop against the oppressive sensation. “What?” she demands. “No. What are you - what are you doing?” 

Regina smiles a poison smile.

“You can’t keep us apart forever,” Belle yells defiantly. “I’ll fight for him. I’ll never stop fighting for him!”

Regina approaches the cage and leans in, reaching through the bars and capturing Belle’s chin in her right hand. She tilts Belle’s head back and forth, studying her in the dim light. She frowns and finally releases Belle with a shove. 

“I wondered if perhaps I missed something at our last meeting,” Regina says blandly. “But it appears not.”

“What are you talking about?” Belle demands.

“You,” Regina says with a sour look. “I thought I must have missed something, perhaps the subtle magic of future sight - that’s always a bitch to try and detect. Or the pointed features that could herald blood ties to the unseelie court. Or even something as mundane as an uncommonly attractive human girl with a talented tongue, but, sadly, you are none of those.” She frowns. “Nothing, my dear. There is absolutely nothing noteworthy about you.”

Regina narrows her eyes at Belle. She sighs. “Your mother didn’t deal with him before you were born, did she?”

Belle gapes at the queen. “ _No_ ,” she says, outraged.

Regina makes a harumph noise and frowns again. “And you’re not even an apprentice. You really are just … _the maid_.” Her lip curls in disgust. “At least his last plaything cum apprentice had the decency to look like the whore she was.” Regina smiles coldly. “Not that I begrudged the girl her line of work. Everyone has to eat. And women, on the whole, do tend to get fucked a lot in life. Might as well get paid for it. But still, I did have to _kill_ her.”

Belle shakes her head in confusion, unable to find words. What is Regina talking about?

Regina impatiently motions to the guards and they get the prison cart moving. “Well,” she says blandly, urging her horse into a trot, “I’m sure it’s _something_. It always is with him. Maybe once I start taking you apart, I will figure out what it is.”

***

Rumplestiltskin looks at the dress, laid out on the table in his laboratory.

Madness, this is madness. He _told_ her to leave. And she did! She _left_ him. She deserted him, just as everyone has deserted him. She chose to leave.

Sighing, he sits down. Even thoughts of her betrayal can’t dissuade him from this foolish path. He takes a pair of shears, meticulously cutting a small square of material from the hem of the dress. Ever so carefully, he places it into a small glass vial and carefully pours the blue iridescent potion over the material.

He sits back, steepling his fingers across his chest, waiting.

When he finds her, he won’t immediately welcome her home. He’ll make her grovel, beg for his favors. He’ll remind her of his power, of her dependence on his beneficence.

He waits.

He imagines her tears, her assertions of her love for him. He will need to hear those again and again, even if they are lies. He will taste her tears, wet and salty against her skin. He will pull her beneath him and take the comfort for which he longs. And then he will do it again.

He waits.

His mouth goes dry and it’s hard to breathe. 

Maybe he won’t make her grovel. Maybe he will scoop her up and carry her home before she has a chance to say anything at all. Better that way. She won’t have the opportunity to lie. He will take her to bed and stay there for a week until they are both too exhausted to move, bind her to him so tightly nothing and no one can ever take her away again. Deceitful though she may be, she is still _his _.__

He waits.

The spell isn’t working. He shakes the vial, but nothing happens. His heart pounds in his ears.

He’s used this spell dozens of times. It _always_ works. 

If Belle is alive, this spell will lead him to her.

He grabs his flask and finishes its contents in one long swallow, ignoring how it burns. Belle is alive. Belle has to be alive. 

His agile mind scans through the possibilities that could make this spell not work. If the dress wasn’t hers - maybe it was a hand me down. Maybe she borrowed the dress from a wealthy cousin. Or if Belle is in some space that is shielded from his magic, the spell won’t work. Not that there are many beings powerful enough to hide things from his watchful eye - but there are some. Not that they would have any interest in a simple village girl.

He sets the empty flask on the table.

Belle _has_ to be alive. 

He grabs the dress and crosses the room, throwing it into the fire. He watches as the material burns, blackening and curling. It wasn’t hers. Wasn’t her dress. That’s why the spell didn’t work. 

Belle is alive.

He is incapable of considering any other possibility.

***

End Chapter


	3. The End is the Beginning is the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Luthien for the beta!

Belle opens her eyes and for several blissful moments, she can’t remember where she is. Blinking, she catches her breath as the room comes into focus, the bare metal walls, the chalk ticks that mark the days. Her spirit ebbs.

The tower.

She’s locked in Regina’s tower. Slowly, she pushes herself into a sitting position and swings her feet to the floor. Fall has faded into winter and the days are short and gray. Not that she can see much of the day. There is a tiny, lone window cut in the ceiling of her cell. The light it provides is nominal.

She rises to her feet and walks the perimeter of her cell. Once the circuit is complete, she takes the chalk and makes another tick. Sixty-three. Sixty-three days spent as Regina’s prisoner. 

As she does every morning, Belle says a silent prayer that Rumplestiltskin will find her. She’s done it every morning since she left the Dark Castle. For the first couple of weeks, it was just the agony of a broken heart, desperately wishing for completion. Now, however, her prayers have taken a decidedly more practical turn. She needs him. She won’t survive locked away in this tower. 

Her lips tremble and she pushes her hand to her mouth, trying vainly to stem the emotion. She moves away from the collection of tick marks, leaning back against the cold metal wall opposite her cot. She thought she had solitude in Rumplestiltskin’s castle, but that was nothing. She took so much for granted, his constant motion and machinations. Even when he was quiet, lost in his spinning, he was still there, his very presence consuming her attention. He engaged with her, courted her in his own odd way.

And now she truly has found solitude, however unwanted. In Regina’s tower cell, Belle is alone with her thoughts and these walls.

Belle hasn’t spoken with another soul in weeks and she wonders idly if she will forget the knack of it. Forget what it’s like to be among people, to communicate, to engage and interact. Such a strange worry and one she never imaged to have, even cosseted away in Rumplestiltskin’s castle.

Once a day a guard brings her food and a basin of water. That is the entirety of the human contact she is allowed. Her first week here, one guard was kind enough to speak to her. The next time she saw him, his tongue had been ripped out. Belle no longer attempts to speak to her jailors. 

She has never known loneliness like this in her life and it wears at her soul.

She has searched her mind and memory and she can think of no reason for the Queen to hate her so. No reason at all except that Rumplestiltskin loves her. _Loved_ her. Belle doesn’t even know anymore. Does he still think of her? With all his ferocious power, how can he not know how much she needs him? Does he know? Is he choosing to ignore her? Is he complicit with Regina’s actions?

Belle can’t help but think about the things Regina said the night she captured her. Was Regina lying? Or did Rumplestiltskin truly have an apprentice who was a … who made her living on her back? If so, why? What need could he have for an apprentice? In all the time Belle knew him, he never showed any inclination toward needing help or wanting to pass on knowledge. And did Regina really kill the girl? Belle knew that Rumplestiltskin knew the queen, but she had no idea their relationship was significant enough to make Regina privy to the intimate details of his life. She wonders, truly, how well the two know each other.

With a sigh, Belle pushes the thoughts away. She wants to be angry at Rumplestiltskin, to hate him even. It would be so much easier. Anger feels strong, it feels like she is in charge of her own life. But it’s a lie. Belle isn’t in charge of her own life, not now. And Belle doesn’t hate him. She doesn’t even blame him for this. Just as he made his own choices, so Regina made her choices. Regina is the one responsible.

Belle wants to hate Rumplestiltskin because it seems more empowered than missing him. It makes her feel less pitiful. But she does miss him. Desperately. And not just because she misses people. She misses _him_. His humor. His quirks. His loneliness. His love.

Her hand goes to her abdomen and she presses her eyes tightly shut. She is pregnant. She carries a child that is part of her and him. Her suspicions from weeks ago have matured into knowledge. There is no longer any doubt. She has started to feel it move, like tiny bubbles tickling deep in her belly.

Walking to the cot, she sits down heavily. She has no idea what Regina will do when she finds out about the child. If she doesn’t already know, that is. Despite her frightening words in the carriage, Regina has not subjected Belle to any bodily torture - nor magical as far as she can tell. Belle only saw the Queen once, on that first night. But Regina has formidable magic - enough that Rumple was cautious with her. Belle shudders at the thought. If Regina thought Belle was a prize to capture, what will she think of Rumplestiltskin’s child? What nefarious plans might she possess for them both?

***

“Flimsy locks,” Regina says, entering the room with a flourish. “I have a deal to discuss. A certain … _mermaid_.”

“I’m not dealing today,” Rumplestiltskin says, turning away from her, concentrating on the wheel. He listens as the Queen pours herself a cup of tea, doing his best to ignore her intrusion. Meddlesome bitch. The Dark Castle is in the grip of winter’s last volley, snow mounded yards high and the roads impassable, but not even that could prevent her visit today. Her Majesty wants an audience.

His teeth grind together. This is all her fault. And now here she is, mocking his lack of wards like she doesn’t know exactly why his defenses are lowered. Belle is gone and it’s her fault. And now here she is, drinking from Belle’s cup, basking in her trivial victory. If he didn’t have so much invested in Regina at this point, he would end her right now.

“Are you angry with me?” she asks with feigned ignorance. “What is it this time?”

“Your little deception failed,” he says darkly. Regina has been his pawn to control from before she was even born. He has masterfully crafted her into the weapon he needs to achieve his ends. She belongs to him like the rest of his collection. “You’ll never be more powerful than me. You can keep trying, dearie, but you’re never going to beat me.”

She turns to face him, her expression mocking. “Oh. Is this about that girl I met on the road? Hmm?” she asks, her amusement clear. “What was her name? Margie? Verna?”

_“Belle.”_

His tone finally seems to give her pause. “Right,” she says. She drops a lump of sugar into her tea. “Well, you can rest assured I had nothing to do with that tragedy.”

Icewater flows through his veins. He stops spinning and walks over to where Regina stands. “What tragedy?” he asks, his voice quiet and brittle.

Regina’s eyes light with glee and she leans in toward him. “You don’t know?” She laughs. “Well, after she got home,” she pauses, enjoying the look on his face, “her fiancé had gone missing.” 

She turns away from him, blatantly presenting him with her back as she walks to the other side of the table, still talking. “And after her stay here.” She turns to face him, an evil smirk on her face. “Her _association_ with you – no one would want her, of course.” She laughs darkly. “It was absurd, naturally. But you know how simple villagers can be. They assumed the child was yours. Her father did the only thing he could. He shunned her, cut her off, shut her out.”

He stares at her blankly, unable to breathe, unable to move.

Regina smirks, clearly enjoying herself. “Your Belle must have had quite the adventure on her way home, to end up in such a state. Of course, she did seem like the trusting sort. No doubt someone took advantage of her kindness.” She laughs again. “But like I said, those peasants are so superstitious. As if it would even be possible for you to be the father of her child. You’re not even a human.”

He clenches his fists together to keep his hands from trembling. 

Regina stares at him, her eyes going wide in genuine shock. “ _Oh_ ... well, maybe I’m wrong,” she says with dark amusement. “Really Rumple? All these years we’ve known each other and I had no idea you were even equipped to deal with such base desires. A simple village girl too. Did you force her?”

Regina narrows her eyes at him, watching him carefully. “No. No forcing. Hmm. She willingly let you.” She arches an eyebrow. “How … _kind_ of her.”

“So she needs … a h-home?” he stutters. 

Regina laughs, looking at him with condescension. “Her father was cruel to her. He locked her in a tower and sent in clerics to cleanse her soul with scourges and fire. I assumed that’s what drove her to it, but perhaps not. If the spawn in her belly was your get, maybe that’s a better explanation. That’s why she threw herself off the tower. She was terrified of giving birth to a monster’s offspring.” 

She pauses, seeming to savor the brittle expression on his face. “She died. And the babe with her.”

“You’re lying,” he manages to say.

She studies him carefully, arching an eyebrow. “Am I?”

His lips tremble and he can barely keep a rein on his emotions. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s several moments before he can form the words. “We’re done,” he says in a near whisper, pursing his lips together before his voice can break. He turns, walking to the door.

“Fine,” she says blandly. “I have other calls to make.” She follows at a leisurely pace, no doubt savoring what she views as another victory. She runs one finger along the length of the table and rubs her fingers together. “Place is looking dusty, Rumple.”

She stops at the door, towering over him in those ridiculous boots. She leans in close. “You should get a new girl. Good luck finding another one so kind.”

He’s aware of her leaving, but it makes no difference. He stares at the ground, shoulders slumping with a defeat he hasn’t known since the day he lost Bae. 

Belle is gone. 

Forever.

***

Regina takes a seat in her carriage, threading her fingers together to stop her hands shaking. Whether they shake from rage or fear or grief, she cannot say. 

She won.

Today, she won.

She has never seen - truly, never imagined to see - Rumplestiltskin, the Dark One, her mentor, so thoroughly defeated. And all for a simple village girl. A girl he _loves_.

Regina screams at the top of her lungs until her throat is raw.

She sinks back in her seat, scowling, breath heaving. What, exactly, did his precious Belle do to earn his love? Possess a pleasing face, a cheerful disposition? Regina smiles darkly to herself. Maybe it wasn’t even that. Maybe it was far more simple. He is, surprisingly, just another man. Regina never even considered it possible that Rumple bedded the girl.

But his little Belle lay with him, conceived a child with him. Perhaps she needed merely capture his cock to capture his heart.

Regina fumes, remembering his apprentice. The gypsy wench certainly would have lain with him as well, had he desired it. Did he? Regina does not know. But she does remember his look of bone deep approval when Regina ripped out the girl’s heart and crushed it to dust. She isn’t precisely sure what reaction she expected today, but the one she received was not it. 

She thought he would be impressed with how cleverly she outmaneuvered him. But instead he was … crushed. Broken. Weak. Rumplestiltskin weak! What right does he have to be weak all because of his simple little Belle? Especially after he mocked her for grieving Daniel’s death. That was love, not some passing fascination with a mediocre pair of tits and a willing - or at least pitying - body.

***

Belle looks up as Regina opens the door to her tower cell. Belle does not know Regina well, but even to her untrained eye, the evil Queen looks scared. Regina’s eyes light on Belle’s growing belly and Belle instinctively wraps her arms around her middle protectively.

Regina glances over her shoulder. As Belle watches, a huntsman comes into view, stepping up behind Regina. Regina speaks to the huntsman, never taking her eyes off Belle. “She can never leave here,” Regina says vehemently. “If anyone attempts to free her, kill her. Her and the child both. He can never know that I have them.”

The huntsman nods. “Yes, your Majesty.”

As Regina moves to close the door, Belle quickly pushes herself to her feet. “You saw him? You spoke with him?” She regrets the words as soon as they are out of her mouth, but she cannot snatch them back.

Regina turns, her features contorting with malicious enjoyment. “I did,” she says lightly. “I told him you’re dead. That you killed yourself rather than birth his monster.”

Belle stares at the Queen, her expression stricken. “He’ll know you’re lying.”

The queen gives her a condescending look. “You and I both know that’s not true,” she says. “He’ll believe it because that’s what he expects life to give him.” She cants her head to the side. “Or rather that’s what he expects life to take from him.”

Belle purses her lips together defiantly.

Regina gives her a smile that’s really more a snarl, stepping into the cell. “You stupid girl,” she snaps. “How very provincial. You spread your legs for him without knowing anything about him. Without any appreciation for what he is.”

“You know nothing about it,” Belle says, her voice thick with emotion. “I love him.”

Regina laughs, throwing her head back. She looks at Belle, giving her a pitying, condescending smile. “Do you know he murdered his wife?” she asks, eyebrows raised. She seems to savor Belle’s look of surprise. “After she left him, he caught her with her pirate lover, ripped her heart out in front of him and crushed it to dust.” She sighs. “Did your love tell you about that? Or about how he lied to his son, let the boy go through a portal to another world alone rather than give up his own power?”

Belle presses her lips together to keep them from trembling, but the unshed tears in her eyes are answer enough.

Regina shakes her head in wonder, looking at Belle. “I truly had no idea that it was his bastard in your belly,” she says. “I just wanted to torture him, rankle him with the knowledge his plaything had been unfaithful.” She rakes her gaze over Belle. “But you weren’t unfaithful, were you? You must be a very brave, very stupid girl.”

Belle swallows thickly. “What are you going to do with us?”

Regina shrugs. “We shall see,” she says, her voice sickly sweet. “But now that I understand just how precious you are to him, I will be certain to keep you very, very safe.” 

She shifts her weight, studying Belle speculatively. “Are you worried?” she asks, looking at Belle’s burgeoning stomach.

Belle holds her chin high, arms still wrapped protectively around her middle.

Regina smiles. “Enough love then for even a baby monster. How … novel. Wherever did he find you?”

***

Belle stares up at the darkened ceiling of her cell, feeling the baby move. Rumplestiltskin believes they’re dead. Thanks to Regina, he knows their night together created a new life. And now he thinks that she killed herself rather than giving birth to his child.

Belle sobs. Regina is right. He will believe the lies. He will truly believe that his love shunned not only him, but his child as well. That she found death preferable to bearing his child.

Hugging her middle tightly, Belle screws her eyes shut. It’s not true. None of it is true. She loves him. And she loves their baby. And she doesn’t even care if it’s born an imp, though she hopes it isn’t. She’ll love it regardless. How could she do any less? She loves him with her whole heart, how could she not love their baby with her whole heart too?

Part of her is so angry at Rumplestiltskin for believing the lies. Does he have so little faith in her? So little faith in the love she feels for him? But her anger is tempered by sorrow. She knows the truth. She knows his disbelief has nothing to do with his lack of faith in her and everything to do with his own self loathing. He truly does not believe he is worthy of being loved.

Belle knows there will be no rescue. Rumplestiltskin won’t look for them because he doesn’t believe there is anything for him to find except pain. She and the baby will become yet more failures to weight his soul. He will memorialize them in his collection of magpie treasures. But he won’t search for them.

Belle knows with absolute certainty that she and her child are completely at Regina’s mercy. 

Forever.

***

End Chapter


	4. A Flicker of Light in a Sea of Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Luthien for the beta!

Rumplestiltskin picks up the chipped cup, studying it in the bright morning sunlight. He never restored the curtains. He never will. Belle took them down and down they shall stay. Forever.

He cleans the cup with a soft cloth and carefully sets it back on the pedestal. His most prized possession. The only thing he truly cherishes.

***

“You don’t speak much.”

Belle glances up at the Queen’s huntsman. Ever since Regina’s last visit, he has been the one to attend to her, rather than the guards. She wants to hate him for helping Regina, but she can’t. He seems lonely, empty.

“I, uh,” she says, clearing her throat. Her voice is scratchy from disuse. She smiles tightly. “The last time I spoke to one of my jailors, Regina had his tongue ripped out.”

The huntsman shrugs. “Sounds like Regina, all right.” He sets down her tray of food and dusts his hands together. “I’m Graham, by the way,” he offers. “And I’m fairly certain Regina won’t rip out my tongue. She finds it too useful.”

Belle stares at him and knows that there is nothing innocent about what he just said. So, the huntsman is also Regina’s lover. And likely not of his own choice. How terrible.

“Well,” Belle says lightly, “you can rest assured that you’re the only person to ever tell me that I don’t speak much.”

He smiles at that. “Really? Little chatterbox are you?”

She smiles and nods. “Guilty as charged. Especially when I don’t have a book to occupy my time.”

He walks to the far wall and slides down it, sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up in front of him. He looks at her. “So you’re Belle. Rumplestiltskin’s Belle.”

She purses her lips together and says nothing. This is hardly news to him. He was there for her entire conversation with Regina. He knows that Rumplestiltskin is the father of her child. And yet, she can’t help but worry that this is just another ploy by Regina to exact information from her. She smiles tightly. “I don’t know anything,” she says bluntly. “Nothing that could be of any use to anyone against Rumplestiltskin.”

Graham nods. “Well, it’s convenient then that I don’t want to know anything.” He wrings his hands together for a moment. “I truly don’t,” he says more quietly. “I just … you look so sad. And so lonely.”

***

Ruth looks at her son, David, both frustrated and proud. She can’t shake the feeling that her boy is meant for a life grander than being a shepherd. And yet, she knows a grand life would take him from her and she can’t bear that thought. “When are you going to learn?” she asks. “You can’t have everything.”

“Or perhaps he can,” Rumplestiltskin says, interrupting the private conversation and striking a pose. 

Both mother and son gape at the Dark One.

***

Graham ushers two women inside the tower cell and quickly crosses the room to where Belle is leaning against the wall.

“I’m okay,” she says, gasping for breath, clutching her stomach. “I’m okay.”

The elder of the two women is of indeterminate age, but probably looks much older than she is. Gently, but firmly, she moves Graham out of the way, looking over Belle. She sighs and nods, calling over her shoulder to the younger woman, who probably isn’t much of a woman at all, but a girl. “Cassie, take him downstairs and show him what supplies we’ll need.”

Cassie nods and Graham seems grateful for the opportunity to retreat without seeming a coward.

“I’m Sarah,” the woman says. “I’m the midwife from the village.” Sarah has the lean constitution of someone who has known many hard winters. She’s Belle’s height with dirty blonde hair pulled back into a tight braid that reaches to her waist. Her skin is deeply tanned and lined, weathered beyond her years.

“I’m Mary,” Belle lies. She doesn’t know if Regina sent for the midwife or if Graham arranged it on his own, but she figures either way, the less these women know about who she really is, the safer they will be. Regina seems truly terrified at the thought of Rumple finding out what she did and Belle is certain Regina would think nothing of killing anyone who could provide that information.

Sarah urges Belle over to the bed and helps her sit down. “When did your pains start?”

Belle looks up at the tiny window in the center of the ceiling of her cell. “Just before dawn,” she says.

“Your waters?” Sarah asks.

Belle shakes her head. “Not yet.”

Sarah helps Belle lie back on the cot and she presses firmly on her stomach, feeling the baby from many angles. “Do you know when you fell pregnant?”

Belle nods. “Two weeks after the harvest moon,” she says. She laughs mirthlessly. “Our anniversary.” Again, a lie, about the circumstances, not the date, is necessary to guard Sarah.

Sarah does the math in her head and nods. “Good. Baby’s the right size and time. Not too early. Not too late.” She meets Belle’s gaze. “This your first?”

“I suppose my four stepsons don’t count,” she says with a smile.

Sarah laughs and it seems to shave a decade off her age. “No,” she says. “Not for this they don’t.” Sarah continues to palpate Belle’s abdomen, stopping when another contraction hits her. “They coming closer?” Sarah asks.

Belle nods, unable to speak until the crippling pain passes. She lets out a shaky breath. “Yes, much closer now.”

The younger girl, Cassie, returns with the supplies. As she comes closer, Belle can see that she’s probably only twelve or thirteen. She has curly fiery red hair and her face is heavily freckled.

“Set ‘em down, girl,” Sarah says to Cassie and the girl quickly obeys.

Turning back to Belle, Sarah says, “Well, you’ve got good wide hips.”

“ _Wonderful_ ,” Belle says dryly.

Sarah moves to the supplies, quickly arranging them. “I’ve seen many a girl barely old enough to bleed trying to birth a baby,” she says seriously. “It’s a bad business. For the girl and the babe. You be glad o’ them hips.”

The thought sobers Belle and she nods.

***

As Ruth and David discuss the details of their tragic family history, Rumplestiltskin takes another drink from the flask. Alcohol isn’t magic, but in large enough quantities, it does a surprisingly good job of numbing him to certain aspects of his deals that he does not care to face.

“Hate to interrupt this tender moment,” he interrupts. “Time is of the essence.”

The young man, David, clasps his mother’s hand. “Mother, wait in the house while I deal with this.”

Ruth stares at Rumplestiltskin and he forces himself to meet her gaze. Acknowledging his shared history with Ruth is no more and no less than the cost of doing business. Thirty years ago, he took one of her sons, never to return him to his mother’s arms. And now here he is again, to take the other. Ruth understands as much without being told.

Rumplestiltskin doesn’t need to use his gift of foresight to know that this transaction will be just as doomed for Ruth as the last. Some people are simply meant to find tragedy. Rumplestiltskin has learned that lesson far better than most.

The woman finally turns away and retreats into the little cottage. Her (remaining) son approaches Rumplestiltskin cautiously. “What do you want from me?”

Rumplestiltskin smiles broadly. “Oh, not me, dear,” he says, tucking the flask into his jacket. “The king. He needs a prince to slay a dragon.”

David shakes his head. “I’m not a dragon slayer.”

“No, but your brother was,” Rumplestiltskin cuts in. “This newfound kinship will be your salvation.”

The young man’s eyes go wide and Rumplestiltskin knows his prey has taken the bait. Not that there was much doubt. He has built a long and storied existence on exploiting the folly and avarice of youth.

“Simply play the part,” Rumplestiltskin informs him. “The king’s knights will take care of everything else. All you must do is deliver the dragon’s head to Midas.”

David regards him warily, but steps closer. “What’s in it for you?”

Rumplestiltskin’s expression tightens. “What’s in it for me is my business. You should be asking what’s in it for you.”

Rumplestiltskin turns, looking pointedly at the little cottage. “You do this and your poor mother … well, the king is going to make sure she never wants for anything ever again. Your farm will be saved and you, should you survive, you shall come home the conquering hero. Now don’t tell me you don’t want that.”

David stares off into the distance, obviously distressed. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Rumplestiltskin sits up straighter, crossing his legs. “Oh, everyone has a choice, dearie. Just make sure it’s the right one.”

***

Belle sobs, clutching her daughter to her chest. She’s perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, rosy pink skin and a tuft of dark hair. 

“Ah, see,” Sarah says with a smile, wiping Belle’s hair back from her forehead. “She was worth all the work.”

“Yes she was,” Belle says softly. She strokes the tip of her finger across her daughter’s cheek. After some truly impressive wailing, the tiny little girl has settled and is contented to just blink up at her mother. Her eyes have an otherworldly luminescence, a strange mixture of colors that manages to be no one color at all. “Her eyes?” Belle asks, looking at Sarah.

Sarah winks. “They’re all like that at first,” she says. “They’ll settle after a while, pick a color.”

Belle nods, staring at her baby and tears track down her cheeks again. She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

Belle’s heart aches and she wishes Rumplestiltskin could be here to see their baby. Their differences seem so petty and insignificant in the face of this tiny girl. He would love her, that much Belle knows for certain. Regardless of whatever strife they may have, Rumplestiltskin would love this little girl with his whole heart.

Sarah gently squeezes Belle’s arm. “We’ll see about getting you something to eat,” she says, taking Cassie with her as they quietly leave the tower room.

“Beatrix,” Belle says, staring at her daughter. “That’s your name. Beatrix. It was my mother’s name.” She sobs again, holding Bea’s hand between her thumb and index fingers. The tiny little fingers wrap around hers with surprising force. “You’re perfect,” Belle whispers to Bea. “But I would have loved you even if you had scales.”

***

Everyone has a choice. Those are more than just words. They are a formative belief of Rumplestiltskin’s life as the Dark One. Even in the most dire circumstances, everyone has a choice. Yes, it would have been difficult for the shepherd boy to turn down his offer, but it was well within the lad’s power.

Like all fools, David was lured in by the promise of glory, riches, and a life free from the hard scrabble of everyday existence. It sounded too good to be true. Mostly because it is. Oh, the boy will find glory and riches, that much is true. But Rumplestiltskin knows they won’t be enough to offset the cost of all that he will lose in the process.

But, Rumplestiltskin considers, the boy will know love. Epic love. A love to break the darkest curse. And that is more than most find at the end of one of his deals.

Choices. Life is full of them. 

Rumplestiltskin stares at the teacup. 

The hardest part about free will is dealing with the consequences of your choices. But that’s all to be done. As King George learned, dead is dead. Done is done.

Rumplestiltskin turns away, leaving the teacup on its pedestal where it will stay, cherished. Forever.

***  
End Chapter


	5. Days Go By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Luthien for the beta!

As the cell door opens, Beatrix’s face lights up and she giggles, clapping her chubby little hands together in glee. 

“Ah, there you are, Princess,” Graham coos to the little girl, dropping down into a squat and holding out his hands as she totters to him on unsteady legs. Beatrix latches onto his fingers and bounces up and down in excitement.

Graham smiles at her. She is a beautiful child, delicate as a little bird and bright as a clear spring morning. And she’s finally getting some hair, curls that frame her tiny features in the same dark chestnut color as her eyes. 

Graham knows Belle feared the child would be bald forever. She bemoaned Bea’s lack of hair with motherly tuts. That is the only worry he has ever heard Belle voice, a slight, mundane concern mixed among the bigger terrors and fears that are never to be spoken of. He looks at Belle, his expression sober. “How are you?”

She forces a tight smile, mostly for Beatrix’s benefit. “It’s her birthday,” she says with feigned brightness

Graham looks at the little girl in his arms, his eyes going wide and his mouth making an “O”. “Your birthday, Princess?” he says in mock surprise. “How lucky that I have a present.”

From the small satchel he carries, Graham produces a set of animals he carved from a fallen oak tree deep in the heart of the forest. There is a wolf, a bear and a fox, all strong and cunning animals, fit to protect a lost princess. Beatrix’s eyes light up and she claps in excitement. Grabbing the wolf, she immediately begins gnawing on its head. Graham laughs, watching the little girl. Here in these austere and antiseptic surroundings, even a less than masterfully made present is enough to brighten up a child’s day.

Graham’s thoughts turn to the imp, as they often do when he is with Belle, and he wonders if Rumplestiltskin has any inkling of what Regina has done. Both Regina and Rumplestiltskin are twisted to the core, but Graham thinks that the imp must not suspect. Not that Graham thinks he would come rushing to Belle’s rescue. Of all the myriad stories Graham has heard of the Dark One, not a single one cast him in the role of savior, or even as one capable of concern for another. But Regina is terrified of Rumplestiltskin discovering what she has done. So there must be at least a bit of truth to her claim that the monster loved Belle. 

Belle never speaks of the imp, not since the one and only time she discussed him with Regina. Graham thinks that Belle must miss the monster. Her loneliness is palpable, though she truly does her best to hide it. She is a proud woman and she seems naturally disinclined to wallow. But it doesn’t seem to be the directionless misery of solitude that plagues Belle in those rare moments when she lets her guard slip. It seems to be a longing for a specific someone. Graham is almost certain that Belle nurses a broken heart.

Being locked in this damn tower would be enough to drive anyone mad with loneliness, to make them long for any solace. Graham supposes it might be enough to make Belle long for even a monster. Being forced to watch Bea grow up in this lightless cell is enough to wither even his own soul, what must it do to Belle’s?

Graham doesn’t know if Belle longs for the monster who sired Bea, or simply for someone strong enough, cunning enough, to beat Regina at her own game. Belle isn’t a vengeful creature, Graham knows that much for certain. But watching Bea in this cold metal cage, Graham understands how even a gentle soul could clamor for retribution. And the tales of Rumplestiltskin’s wrath are as long as they are bloody.

Graham has thought of searching out the imp, of telling him of Belle and Beatrix, but Regina’s magic prevents it. He can’t even speak of the idea to Belle. Regina’s dark enchantment wraps around his tongue, tying his words up until they wither and die, unspoken.

Watching Bea play with the carved animals, Belle whispers softly, “Thank you.”

Ducking his head, Graham purses his lips together tightly. He is at Regina’s command, but if there was any way for him to free Belle and Beatrix, he would gladly trade his life to see it done. This beautiful little girl and her lovely mother belong free, not caged here on the Queen’s whim for no reason other than that a monster loved them. “It won’t be forever, Belle,” he vows. “I promise.” 

Picking up Beatrix, Graham rises to his feet and crosses the room to Belle. He reaches into the satchel again and pulls out a stack of books. It isn’t much, but it’s the only comfort he can offer to Belle. She loves books, that much he knows. But they are a poor substitute for being able to watch her daughter run across the new spring grass in a meadow, laughing in the sunlight.

Gratefully, Belle takes the books, clutching them to her chest. “Thank you again.”

Sitting down on the cot next to Belle, Graham shrugs. “I have to say, at this point, you’ve read nearly every book Regina owns.” He glances at Belle. “She’s not much of a reader.”

“I’ve noticed,” Belle says wryly. She catches herself. “Not that I’m complaining, truly I’m not. Don’t think I’m not grateful.” 

Graham knows that Belle isn’t ungrateful. It’s just that Regina’s taste in reading material is disappointingly narrow minded. It seems that every single book she owns is about how to amass more power, or how magic works or the history of noble families. Graham understands how the information could be useful to someone in Regina’s position, however, for someone like Belle, locked in a tower, it’s decidedly less useful and probably disappointingly dry. “I’ll see what I can do about finding some more interesting books.”

***

Desperate souls. Rumplestiltskin’s entire existence has been built on knowing when and where to take advantage of them. And Snow White most certainly is a desperate soul, meeting him here in this gods forsaken swamp in the middle of the night. He knows many a supposedly brave man who would not dare attempt such a feat. It’s testament to just how miserable the young princess must be.

“What ails you, child?” Rumplestiltskin asks, though he already knows the answer. Even if he didn’t already know her story, which he does, the young princess’s troubles are clearly written on her features. He pointedly refrains from wondering if his own features mirror that emotion.

“A broken heart,” she answers honestly, her breath catching as she fights the tears that threaten to fall.

“Ah,” he says truthfully, “the most painful of afflictions.” He turns away, pacing around her as she turns to follow him, taking the first steps of this well-worn dance. “Well, I’m afraid if you want me to make him love you, no can do. And nothing can.”

“Oh, no,” she quickly corrects him. “That’s not the problem. We can’t be together.” And again, her sadness almost touches his heart. Almost. For even if she hurts now, the princess will know love again. She will find respite. Unlike him.

He smiles, raising a finger. “Well that, I can help you with.”

He pulls the vial out of his pocket, showing it to the princess with a giggle. Leaning down on the dock, he fills the little bottle with brackish water. A thought from him causes the water to boil, turning the liquid milky.

She stares at the bottle, astounded. “That’ll do it?”

“Not yet,” he snaps. Desperate souls are so impatient. And this particular magic cannot be hurried. “No two loves are exactly alike,” he explains, rising to his feet, facing her. He knows this spell inside and out, having studied it for the last year. “We must make this …” he reaches toward her and quickly grabs a lock of hair, plucking it from her head. “Personal.”

She flinches, instinctively grabbing for her abused tresses as she watches him place the hair into the vial. She seems to steel her resolve. “So, if I drink that, I’ll no longer love him?”

“The next time you see the object of your grief,” he says, placing the stopper in the vial. “You won’t even remember who he is.”

Her brow knits together and her grief is palpable as she quietly says, “Won’t remember him?”

He leans in, baring his teeth. “Love is the most powerful magic. The cure must be extreme.” And he knows well how extreme. How many nights has he considered taking this very potion? He’s never been able to bring himself to do it, coward that he is. He clings too tightly to his pain. It’s all he has left of her … of them.

Snow White shakes her head. “‘Extreme’ sounds like an understatement.”

“Don’t doubt yourself now, dearie,” he cajoles bitterly, tamping down his own emotions. He can wallow in them later. In the solitude of his tower he can rehash his sins again and again. “Love makes us sick, haunts our dreams, destroys our days. Love has killed more than any disease.”

He holds the vial out to her. “This cure is a gift.”

***

In the dim light of the lone, small candle she is allowed, Belle looks at the worn cover of the book Graham brought her last week. It seemed innocuous at first, another bland subject snatched from Regina’s meager library to try and keep the boredom at bay. But reading the first page was more than enough for Belle to realize that this book was not merely another mindless history of horse lineages or an account of ancient poisons.

Rumplestiltskin. This book is a history of Rumplestiltskin. Belle has no idea who compiled the tome, but she is certain it was not Regina. The verbiage is too stuffy, the interpretations, such as they are, far too stodgy and humorless. The text was clearly written by some scholar sitting in some dank little room, having never seen Rumplestiltskin and likely, rarely seen the sun.

Overly formal though it may be, the book is a curious tome. While the author certainly had no first hand knowledge of the Dark One, he did a comprehensive job of compiling every story he could find that pertained to Rumplestiltskin.

Belle read the book with a kind of morbid fascination. At first she was delighted simply to be reminded that Rumplestiltksin is real, to see his name in script, to have proof that he exists somewhere beyond the confines of her broken heart. The delight, however, quickly waned, replaced by a sort of shocked affront. Some of the stories were so ludicrous, so patently ridiculous that it was laughable. And yet more were anything but laughable. Some of the accounts left her fuming on Rumplestiltskin’s behalf, as if he would stoop to something so petty, so … _obvious_ as the text implied.

But the more Belle read, the more she got the knack of it. The more she was able to read the threads of truth woven throughout the fantastic accounts. She was able to recognize the truth of Rumplestiltskin’s cruelty and manipulations buried under the outlandish recountings. She read story after story of how he made deals with desperate parents, absconding to parts unknown with their innocent children, taking advantage of entire families when they were at their weakest. There were even a couple of stories that recounted Rumplestiltskin’s seductions of innocent young maidens. 

And there were stories of how he had once been a man, how he murdered his wife in cold blood, how he abandoned his son.

_“There was a son. I lost him. As I did his mother.”_

Now, like never before, Belle doubts herself. She doubts her heart, something she never dreamed possible. Was anything she shared with Rumplestiltskin real? She truly doesn’t know. She thought she knew. She thought she had the irrefutable proof of True Love’s kiss. But more and more she wonders if it was just some trickery on Regina’s part. What if it wasn’t real. What if he didn’t love her at all?

If he is half as powerful as that damn book thinks he is, how can he not know that she is still alive, that he has a daughter who needs him desperately? How can he leave them here, at Regina’s mercy? Were they part of some deal? Did he trade them to Regina for something far more valuable?

Belle stares blindly at the ceiling of her cell, feeling the warm weight of her daughter curled at her side. She hates to think these things. They are like acid, eating at her soul. She remembers. She remembers what it felt like to think of him and feel nothing but the purest belief in their Love, in his capacity for goodness. But she has spent so many days inside these cold metal walls missing him, that she truly does not know anymore.

All she knows is that Beatrix deserves better than this. 

***

Regina watches as Belle clutches her daughter tightly to her chest, her fear and anger palpable. Rumple’s plaything looks terrible. She’s far too thin and while Regina didn’t think it was possible for Belle to get much more pale, apparently it is. She looks like a wraith, glaring at Regina with potent mixture of hatred and terror burning in her eyes. If Belle had any power at all, it might give Regina pause. But as it is, she does not.

The little girl, however, doesn't appear to be afraid. She sits quiet in her mother’s arms, blinking at Regina. This is the first time Regina has paid a visit to the tower since the child’s birth.

“What’s her name?” Regina demands.

Belle purses her lips together tightly. 

“Names are Rumple’s thing, not mine,” Regina says blandly. “I can dig around inside her just as easily without her name as I can with it.”

“If you touch her -” Belle starts, shifting so her body is between Regina and the child.

Regina holds up her hand. “Enough,” she says flatly. “I’m not going to hurt her. Yet. Don’t go making threats you can’t possibly keep.” She crosses the cell, standing directly in front of where Belle sits on the cot with the little girl. “Let me see her.”

“No,” Belle says, her chin jutting out defiantly.

Regina smiles a cold, cruel smile. “I can have you dragged out of here and do whatever I want to the child without your consent. In fact, I don’t have to ever let you see her again.”

Belle presses her eyes tightly shut for a moment and then opens them, staring at Regina. She nods. 

Regina crouches down as Belle sets her daughter in her lap, facing Regina. Regina studies the child closely. She doesn’t resemble her mother very much. Not in coloring. The little girl’s skin is far more olive toned and deeper than her mother’s usual pale pink complexion. Their eyes too, are far different. Where Belle’s are a bright, clear blue, the child’s are the darkest brown, making it difficult to distinguish her iris from her pupil. Regina frowns. Is that what Rumple looked like when he was human? In broad terms? It’s hard to tell. The child’s features are pointed, especially for one so young, striking cheek bones, a sharp little chin. She looks like a little pixie - all angled features and big, dark eyes. Her hair though, that’s undoubtedly from Rumple - dark, glossy curls. And the shimmering magic Regina can feel just below the child’s skin. That must be from Rumple as well. It doesn’t feel like a spell or charm, nothing given to the girl to protect her. It seems to come from the child herself.

Finally, Regina reaches out and runs one perfectly manicured finger over the child’s cheek. “Not an imp, then,” she says in surprise. “I wonder how the hell he managed that.” She looks at Belle, smiling mirthlessly. “Don’t worry. I already know that you don’t know.”

Regina sighs, looking at the child. “She’s powerful though,” she says in wonder. “Very powerful.” She narrows her eyes at Belle. “Given that Rumple is still his usual scaly self, I can only imagine that there was no True Love’s kiss to break his curse.” She frowns. “Even though he did seem fascinated with you.” She pushes herself to her feet, hands on her hips as she looks down at Belle and her daughter. “So, that means that she isn’t a child born of True Love.” Regina shifts, crossing her arms over her chest. “If she were, that would explain a lot.” She looks at Belle.

Belle sits there, lips pressed tightly together, saying nothing.

***

Charming’s jaw is set and he is every inch the Prince of an epic tale as he stands in the foyer of Rumplestiltskin’s Dark Castle, bearding the proverbial lion in his own den. “I’m here about Snow,” he says, fixing Rumplestiltskin with his glare. “Rumor has it she’s after the Queen and she came to you for help.”

“Yes, indeed,” Rumplestiltskin replies with malicious glee, making no attempt to deny the accusation.

Drawing his sword, Charming points it at Rumplestiltskin, who playfully hops back out of range. “What did you do to her?” Charming demands, his voice low and gruff.

“What did _I_ do to her?” Rumplestiltskin titters. But in an instant, his demeanor changes and his features take on a predatory glint as he stalks toward Charming, finger pointed. “You mean, what did _you_ do to her,” he snaps. “ _You_ caused her pain. Without that pain, she never would have drunk my potion to forget about you.” He’s almost growling now, closing the distance, pressing his chest defiantly against the tip of Charming’s sword, unconcerned about any possible injury. “That’s what changed her.”

Charming watches the imp. He has no idea why Rumplestiltskin would be angry with him on Snow’s behalf. As far as Charming knows, Rumplestiltskin just likes to toy with people for whatever perverse pleasure he can twist out of their pain. Charming has no idea what would cause Rumplestiltskin to react with such visceral emotion to a situation that does not concern him in the least.

“Undo the potion,” Charming commands with far more authority than he truly fees. “All magic can be broken.”

“Oh yes,” Rumplestiltskin says, shaking his head in a mocking little motion. “Twu wuv.”

“So that’s it’,” Charming says, latching onto the words. “True Love’s kiss will awaken her.”

“Most certainly,” Rumplestiltskin says sincerely, but then the imp changes again, holding up a finger as he says, “but it’s going to be hard to kiss her when you don’t know where she is.” 

Almost casually, Rumplestiltskin bats Charming’s sword away and turns with a little laugh, retreating deeper into his castle. He pauses near the steps, waiting.

“Name your price,” Charming says, not caring if he sounds desperate. That’s what he is, a desperate man. Rumplestiltskin surely already knows as much.

The imp turns with a flourish. “How about your cloak.”

Charming stares at him dully. “My cloak,” he says. He’s been expecting Rumplestiltskin to demand some impossible feat or some horrid trade, like his mother’s life. But a simple cloak? “Why would you want my cloak?”

Rumplestiltskin’s face scrunches up in a twisted smile. “It’s drafty in here.”

Charming knows. He knows there’s more to it than that, but he doesn’t have the luxury of time to try and unravel the twisted web the imp is weaving. He shrugs out of the cloak, tossing it on top of the table next to the giant vase of red roses. “Where is she?”

“On her way to the Queen’s highway,” Rumplestiltskin says, his voice lower, the tittering imp all but forgotten. With a wave of his hand, he produces a map in a puff of purple smoke. “This is the route she’s taking,” he says, stalking toward Charming, closing the distance between them. “But you better be quick. Because if she kills the Queen, she becomes as evil as the woman whose life she takes.”

Charming shakes his head reflexively, staring into Rumplestiltskin’s disturbingly reptilian eyes. “She could never become that evil.” He turns, hurrying for the doors.

“Evil isn’t born, dearie, it’s made,” Rumplestiltskin calls after him. “If Snow starts down that road, you’ll never get her back.”

***

“Graham!” Beatrix chirps, running the short distance across the cell to him.

Graham scoops her up in his arms and tosses her in the air, causing her to squeal in delight before he clutches her close. “Princess,” he says, “a little birdie told me that today is your birthday. How old are you?”

Beatrix grins and with some effort, holds up two fingers.

“Two!” Graham says in mock surprise, his eyes wide. “Why, that’s a special birthday in the life of a princess. That’s the day she gets her first crown.”

Beatrix’s little brow furrows at him. He smiles at her and from his satchel produces a crown woven from fresh wildflowers. Beatrix’s eyes light up and she is giddy as he places it on her head. She scrambles down out of his arms and rushes to her mother.

“Oh, you look lovely, Bea,” Belle says, smiling.

Beatrix takes the crown off her head and closely studies the beautiful flowers, touching them with gentle fingers. Graham catches Belle’s eye and she smiles tightly, trying not to cry. She looks terrible, haggard and far too thin and pale.

Graham crosses the room and takes a seat on the cot next to her. “Soon, Belle,” he says meaningfully. “Soon.” And he truly means it. For he fears Belle will not last much longer.

***

“Behold,” Rumplestiltskin says, holding up the vial of shimmering liquid. “The most powerful magic of all, True Love.” Charming immediately reaches for the potion and Rumplestiltskin pulls it out of his reach. “Ah! Careful,” he snaps. “That’s all I have left of it.”

Charming stares at the imp, features tightened into a scowl. “What do you know of true love?” he asks derisively.

“Well, not so much as you, perhaps,” Rumplestiltskin replies tightly, taking a step closer, teeth bared, “but not so little as you might think.”

“You?” Charming asks incredulously, unable to prevent the smirk that pulls on the corners of his mouth. “You love someone?”

Rumpelstiltskin looks away, his demeanor and mannerisms instantly becoming more theatrical than usual. “It was a brief flicker of light,” he says, his accent all showmanship and misdirection, “amidst an ocean of darkness.” 

As soon as Rumplestiltskin stops talking, the theater fades and for one brief moment, Charming can feel the staggering depth of the imp’s anguish. “What happened?” he asks quietly.

Rumpelstiltskin’s gaze narrows and he pauses for just a moment, as if steeling himself to speak the words that will follow. “She died,” he says quietly.

Rumplestiltskin regroups quickly, motioning toward Charming with a hand. “That’s the thing about true love, dearie,” he says, sounding once again like the deal maker. “It can slip through your fingers. It’s the most powerful magic in the world. The only magic powerful enough to break any curse. It must be protected at all costs.”

Charming’s head swims as he tries to wrap his mind around the mass of contradictions that is Rumplestiltskin and his machinations. The imp is up to something, that much is a certainty. But what it could be, Charming has no idea. All he knows is that this conversation is wasting precious time he could be using to find Snow. “I don’t understand. What exactly is it you want me to do?”

“I want you to help me protect it,” Rumplestiltskin says, as if this should be obvious and he’s tiring of explaining it, “by putting it in a safe place for me.”

Charming watches as Rumplestiltskin uses magic to conjure a golden egg and then carefully places the vial of True Love inside. So, Rumplestiltskin means for him to do something with this damn egg now. “And where is that?”

“Inside the belly of a beast, of course,” Rumplestiltskin explains with a little laugh, tossing the egg to Charming.

Charming stares down at the egg in his hand and then looks back to Rumplestiltskin. “Why hide it?” he asks, despite knowing that he probably doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“Let’s just say,” Rumplestiltskin says in his sing-song voice, “I’m saving it for a rainy day.”

***

Charming swings around, sword in hand, ready to attack, but he’s too late. The guard is upon him before he has time to raise his sword. The only thing he can think is that it’s a waste for him to die like this. He still has so much to accomplish. But above all, he wishes he could see Snow one last time, tell her how much he loves her.

But as he waits for the blow, it never comes. He looks up to see an arrow buried in the guard’s chest. He watches as the man falls to the floor, dead. Spinning around, he sees another man dressed in the Queen’s armor, holding a bow. “Come with me,” the second man says, “now.”

Charming rises to his feet and takes several steps to the archer, holding the point of his sword at the man’s throat. The man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t retreat. He returns Charming’s stare with the wizened soul of a warrior. “If you want to stop Regina, if you truly want the power to halt her plans, you need to follow me now.”

***

Charming, Grumpy and John follow the man up the seemingly interminable tower stairs. They reach the top and find the door guarded by four of the Queen’s men. Charming has no idea who is locked in the tower cell, but if there are four of the Queen’s men guarding the door while the entire palace is under siege, odds are the prisoner is important.

John, the captain of Charming’s personal guard, rushes forward, taking two of the men. Charming rushes into the fray as well, followed by the archer. It is a long, arduous battle, but eventually all of the Queen’s men fall.

The archer takes the keys from one of the fallen men’s belts and opens the door, rushing inside. Charming follows him into the cell, sword still in hand.

Inside the cell, a young, frail looking woman in a tattered blue dress jumps to her feet, clutching a little girl to her chest. “Graham?” she says, immediately going to the archer’s side.

“It’s okay, Belle,” the archer, Graham, assures the woman. “These men are with Princess Snow. They will take you to safety.”

Charming has no idea who the woman is or why Regina could possibly have her locked up under such heavy guard. But he knows Regina well enough to know that if she wanted Belle locked away, there is a damn good reason. Charming just hopes that the reason is something that can be turned to their advantage.

“I’m David,” Charming says, stepping forward, sheathing his sword and holding out his hand to Belle.

Warily she takes his hand, her gaze darting between Charming and Graham. Graham gives her arm an encouraging squeeze and ushers her toward the door.

“It’s okay,” Charming assures her, “we won’t let anything happen to you.”

Belle turns and looks at the rest of the group and her eyes go wide when she sees Grumpy. “I know you,” she and the dwarf say in unison.

Charming has no idea how Belle and Grumpy know each other, but Belle seems instantly at ease. He watches as she allows Grumpy and John to lead her and the little girl to the door.

***

Belle’s hands tremble as she clutches Bea close. The little girl is sandwiched between Belle and John, who is apparently the captain of Prince Charming’s guard, on the back of John’s enormous mount. Bea hasn’t made a peep in the entire time since Graham burst into their cell with the rescuers.

“A-are we stopping for a while?” Belle asks.

Looking over his shoulder, John nods sharply. “Yes, milady.”

Belle moves to dismount but John is quicker, sliding out of the saddle and lifting down Belle with Bea still clutched to her chest. Looking down at her daughter, Belle watches her wide little eyes and slack mouth as she takes in the enormity of her surroundings.

It’s a lot to take in. Even for Belle, who is well acquainted with the forest, with soldiers and horses. All the smells, sounds and sights are overwhelming after years of deprivation.

Bea’s mouth curves into a gentle smile and her eyes light up as she lets out an ear splitting screech of joy, clapping with excitement at the sound of her voice echoing through the trees.

“Happy to be outside?” John asks with a smile.

Belle looks up at him. He seems nice enough, but years of captivity have turned her formerly outgoing nature cautious. “It’s the first time she’s ever been out of that cell,” Belle says quietly.

John blinks at her and then looks away, shaking his head in disbelief.

“May we walk a little?” Belle asks John.

He looks at her with warm, sad eyes. “You’re not our prisoner, milady. Of course you can take a walk with the little one.”

Belle nods, ducking her head as she ventures off the road and into the forest, careful with her steps as her legs are shaking. Bea stars up at the trees, her eyes twinkling with delight. Belle clutches her close, whispering into her ear, “I told you, love. I told you we’d be free.”

She takes several more steps through the dense underbrush and sees the stream, small but clear and fast moving. She takes Bea to the water and crouches down, showing the little girl how to dip her fingers in the water. Bea giggles in delight, squirming down out of Belle’s arms and wading into the water, letting out a screech as the cold water chills her little toes.

Belle watches her daughter, tears in her eyes. Her chest hurts so much with the force of her emotions. It’s on the tip of her tongue to call out to Rumplestiltskin, but she can’t bring herself to speak his name, to beg his help. She knows without asking that her rescuers would not appreciate the Dark One appearing in their midst. And more than that, she … doubts. She doubts everything. Everything except Bea and the beauty of freedom.

She takes a deep, steadying breath. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she will be stronger, perhaps even strong enough to call for him. 

***

Charming curses, staring into the distance at the fallen palace. “I can’t believe Regina got away.” His mount moves restlessly, breath still heaving from the fruitless chase.

“It’s okay,” Snow replies gently, reaching out to squeeze his thigh. “I’m sure it won’t be long before we see her again.”

He chuckles mirthlessly. “No doubt.”

Turning, Snow looks at Belle who is exploring a stream several yards from the road with her little girl. “Who is she?” Snow asks. 

Charming watches Belle and the little girl wade ankle deep in the water. It has to be frigid, but neither of them seems to mind. He can hear their quiet laughter. “I have no idea. But given the defenses Regina had in place, they have to be important.”

***  
End Chapter


End file.
